Misfit
by Namida-sama
Summary: The adventures of a young Wizard as he studies magic (alongside Witch) and tries to patch together a family under a master who often proves harsh. A study in jealousy and contrast.
1. Chapter 1

_Misfit_

_Chapter One: Threat_

(My interpretation of) Wizard's past and his relationship with Witch, while they train in the magic arts.

* * *

A skinny, dirty young kid's hanging around the outside step when she arrives. Unfamiliar, with shaded urchin's eyes that travel slowly, analytically up to her face. He has no expression and no shoes.

A street kid from the poor district, no doubt.

The little witch disregards this encounter and enters her Master's house.

He is not in, but leaves a note scolding her for failing the first lesson of the day: to teleport to the castle.  
She had walked.  
Indignant, she prepares an excuse involving fatigue, but declares it futile and abandons it in favour of formulating one about that kid.  
She couldn't very well have teleported right in front of that rat. Why, she had known he was there before she had even left her home!  
Shouldn't she be rewarded for her foresight?  
Satisfied, she slips out of her coat and promenades into the study, settling into a wooden chair (spine ruler-straight, as a lady's should be)  
with some ancient tome nestled in her lap.  
The room fills with ticking from the glass-plated clock in front of the biggest window; the morning sun throws shadows of its hands and numbers on the stone floor.  
She reads peacefully, skimming. She cannot yet remember the finer points of the grammar of some of these languages. The big words elude her completely, and she pieces together the text with scraps of whatever she understands. The sky outside is pastoral blue, a day to be used for sowing, tending, harvesting.

She doesn't know how long she's been reading when the big wooden door- the _warded, charmed_ door- clicks open, creaks, shuts heavily.

Master _never_ uses that door. Witch hasn't seen him do it even once.  
It's the kid. He walks into the study, still empty-faced and unresponsive, to her shock. He has no coat to hang up.

"What are you doing?!"  
She hisses through her teeth. But this too is pointless. Master already knows the kid is in his house. He is probably already on his way.  
But if Master hadn't meant for the kid to get in, he wouldn't have. The kid couldn't have breached the physical locks, let alone the protective charms and spells that were in place.

The kid shrugs. His eyes meet hers again, staring as if scrutinising, and it makes her fidget.  
Like she's done something wrong, and he _knows_.  
And he'll tell.  
Witch stands. The kid follows the movement with his eyes.

"You get out _now_."

He just keeps staring.  
She takes a threatening step forward, gathering herself up to her full height of four-eight in patched stockings.  
He doesn't move. He isn't alarmed, shocked, scared.  
It's like he _knows_.

"What do you even want, you dirty creep?"

"...Nothing with you. Nothing."

His voice is very quiet, calm. It doesn't fit exactly with the intensity in his eyes, and she doesn't know how to respond, under that gaze, and so sits back down, wary.  
She's running through every spell she knows. Everything.  
She pulls her jumper up a little higher without thinking about it.

The kid shrugs again, finally looking away. She can see his shoulder joints, his vertebrae, all bulging and angular under his skim, which seems too small for his body. No fat.

Is his skin naturally that colour or is it just grime?

His hair is long and dark, dirty like the rest of him.

He doesn't belong here. Not like she does, with her talent and looks, just like her mommy.  
Does he even have a mommy?

Master had said once that she had potential and talent.

What had Master said about him? The little witch-in-training wanted to know, suddenly, _badly._

What did her strong, wise Master want with this street misfit?

* * *

Review, please! I'd like to know where and how I could do better.


	2. Chapter 2

Misfit

Chapter 2: Background Character

Please alert me to any tense mistakes or inconsistencies you see. I've done the best I can in making it sound smooth, however.

* * *

Master comes in through the portal later that day to find the skinny boy cross-legged on the fur rug eating crumpet after crumpet and licking jam from his fingers.

Noticing him, the kid still manages to compose himself excellently, getting to his feet and standing smartly, despite the crumbs clinging to his tattered tunic.

Immediately after his visual appraisal of the kid, he tears into Witch.

"Did you let him in?"

"No, sir! I don't know how he got in.

I thought... you already knew about him."

She stands in front of the boy, slightly taller, much better fed.

Master turns to face the kid then, and, more gently than Witch had ever seen him, asks,

"How'd you get in here, boy?"

Looking him dead in the eyes (Witch could never manage such a feat), the nameless street kid answers quietly.

"I was hungry. I went in to see if you had something for me to eat."

"Wasn't the door heavy, son?"

Master squats down to his level, and Witch is embarrassed for him, that he has to stoop to speak to that urchin.

Kids like him are a penny a pop. They roam the streets like animals, and like dogs they form packs in the evenings to sleep, staring up at pedestrians, their sad, sunken eyes watching the world bustle past.

"Not at all. There was some sort of warm tingling wall- like the waterfall at the creek, but I guess I got through." He hardly moves his jam-sticky mouth when he speaks.

Master rocks back on his boot-heels.

"You gotta family? Place to live?"

Somehow the kid looks even scrawnier, smaller, though his composed expression remains the same. He shakes his head and drops his eyes for the first time.

"You go on upstairs and pick any room you like. Witch, show him around."

She stands there, trying to digest it all. Within her balled fists, her fingernails dig into her palms.

She can't bring herself to say anything, and instead nods dumbly, astounded.

She stubbornly rejects the ridiculous notion that some kid from the street, age ten or under, could break through such high-level barriers and wards simply because he was_ hungry_.

But, then, the brat just _has_ to be something else_._ Witch knows Master is very good at sensing the potential in people, and he must have seen something absolutely _otherworldly_ in the little rat to take him under his wing.

She grasps his bony arm and leads him to the hallway, and then to the stairwell. He follows behind passively, blinking at the hangings and exotic tapestries on the cold rock walls. His bare feet are almost silent on the floor-mats, though he surely feels the cold stone underneath.

He hesitates a bit as they travel the long, curving corridor, passing library after library, and stops fully in front of the room where Master grows his healing herbs and potion ingredients.

Witch isn't allowed in that room, and yanks on his elbow to get him moving, but he resists, makes a face, and brushes her hands off, tentatively padding in despite her warnings.

Nervously, she starts to sweat, and begins picking at her cuticles. Master was probably watching them now.

He just stands there with his mouth open, in the middle of the room, staring up at the afternoon sky through the misty glass on the walls and ceiling.

Pots of clay and brass line the walls, angled to catch every last patch of sun. Stout plants with broad stems and huge, gaudy flowers cradle droplets of water in their curved, waxy leaves, alongside rows of carefully labeled glass jars in which tiny, tender green-white sprouts are just beginning to unfurl out of the soil.

Jewel-like Vials and jars of unnamable powders, liquids, and creams are stacked with care on a shelf dominating one wall. The light catches the glass of the containers and projects shapes made of light in china blue, sunset red, grass green, and regal purple on the floor. Next to the shelves, a workbench is stacked with dirty tools and folded cloth and paper seed packs.

Taking up a large portion of the room, inarguably the most noticeable feature, is a strange system fused to the walls. It is composed of a network of pipes attached to a strange deep tank-like depression in the ceiling that is about a quarter full of greenish water.

The pipes feed downward into narrow straws, which are controlled by a large tap and connected to several troughs filled with soil and sprouting plants.

Witch peeks in, anxious. She has bitten her cuticles to ribbons and her fingers have started to bleed a bit.

"Don't you _dare_ touch the rain collector!"

The kid has never seen anything even remotely close to this, and draws back his hand.

He finds the whole experience very overwhelming. This was one room out of hundreds. How many more wonders did the Master keep hidden in the castle?

"Come _on_ already..."

She will _not_ get in trouble just because the little worm had to stop and gawk at all the forbidden rooms.

He begins to slowly step out of the plant room, much to her relief.

They continue along the candlelit hallway until they reach the wing that contains the living quarters.

There, another huge hallway stretches out before them, on one wall an army of doors, each painted a different colour, with a different pattern.

On the other wall is a huge, fading mural of a tall, stately woman with green hair and wings like a dragonfly's embracing an enormous glowing tree.

This hall has no windows, and is always cool and dark.

Witch turns to him, sees the almost nostalgic expression on his rough, dirty face, and explains a bit uncomfortably that the purple door with the flowery pattern is hers and the plain black one is Master's.

"And you can't _ever_ go in there without his permission. Choose whatever colour door you want. I don't really know what's behind them."

He paces down the hall, up and down, looking for one he really likes.

Witch, having ignored her bloody nails for too long, occupies herself with wiping the crust off on her sleeve.

She watches, bored, as he stops three times, once in front of a gray door with a swirling pattern suggesting rainclouds, then a green one with leaves on it, and finally, a darker blue door portraying a painted moon and stars.

He decides on the blue one, and turns the knob. She follows him into the room, driven more by curiosity than the desire to help him settle in.

Witch is disappointed. She was expecting something different behind every door, but his room is remarkably similar to her own, only plainer, devoid of any character.

The kid, on the other hand, is in total awe of all he has been offered.

Not only is there a roof that doesn't leak over his head, there is a soft bed with blue blankets, a closet already filled with clothes, and his very own fireplace!

There is also an empty bookcase near the only window, and a new bottle of ink, a quill pen, and a neat stack of blank parchment atop a wooden desk.

Witch decides to leave him then, giving him rough directions to the privy and the bathing-chamber and the dining hall, where a meal would be served in an hour.

What did she care if he got lost on the way?

* * *

I'm almost thankful neither of them discuss their origins too deeply in-game. Doesn't really give me any guidelines to go by, but doesn't restrict me either. What do you think of it so far? Questions? I mean, I certainly can't answer ones about future chapters for fear of spoiling the surprise, but I'd love to hear them anyway.

I should be updating this one fairly frequently. Also, it was late at night when I wrote the first chapter, so please kindly overlook the stupid note in which I restrict the chapters to 700 words. I've removed it.

Thank you for your feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

Misfit

Chapter 3: Deciding Upon the Enemy

An update every couple days, until I finish riding this wave. Thanks for your support, readers!

* * *

The kid comes down to the dining hall wearing a fresh new shirt and trousers that hang off of him, clean and a lot less ragged and wretched.

Though there is little improvement in the quality of his face and body-he is skin and bones, hollow-cheeked and thin as a street mutt- he certainly looks healthier. Less of a metropolis for lice and vermin nonetheless, but Witch is still reluctant to approve of him.

His new shoes clack satisfyingly in the corridor, and as he enters the hall, he is amazed at the sheer quantity and quality of the food.

Master had told Witch to put on her party dress, the red one, and she sits across from him and tries to hold her scowls in.

The kid takes a plate (porcelain from China, in the hands of that piglet, she thinks) and heaps it high with the splendid food from around the world, an emperor's meal, a king's feast laid out for him to sample.

The long table is made of dark wood from some unimaginable land, carved with images of curving dragons. It's much too big for just the three of them, and seems empty and lonely with its legions of unfilled chairs.

Master, at the head of the table, furthest away from the fireplace and the food, smiles gently, lacing his fingers together over the red cloth napkin, waiting for his soup to cool.

There is a small roast of pork stuffed with early-season apples and nuts along with carrots, mashed and boiled, whole steamed squash, three kinds of bread and fresh butter.

This isn't even extravagant to Witch. It's a lot of food, yes, but she can't comprehend his excitement, having never been truly hungry.

He can't seem to keep back his smile as he attacks the provisions. His cheeks are all red from eating too fast.

Master, as usual, doesn't indulge too deeply in the meal. Soup and meat, occasionally vegetables, water to drink, and none of it in excess.

She remembers him mentioning once, in one of his gentler moments, that overindulgence in worldly pleasures would distract one from concentrating fully on their studies and meditation. He spoke for a long time of obtaining something, seeking some blurry concept she couldn't understand and didn't remember.

She thinks of that time as she eats, cutting her meat slowly and sopping up sauce with a hunk of bread.

Dessert is more elaborate. There are pumpkin tarts (with expensive spice from the desert and the East) and custard, sweet breads, little cakes made with molasses and dainty lacelike cookies made with lots of butter.

Master is still in his good mood, and doesn't protest when the boy finishes and tries to smuggle some extra pastries in his pockets up to bed.

He is a very slow eater, and is still spooning up the dregs of broth in his bowl when a small, bony brown hand snakes up from under the table and weaves between serving dishes to grasp at the cookies.

Witch watches, fixated on the dexterity of the boy's hands.

Without looking up, Master waves his hand in an approving way, and the hand halts just at the edge of the plate.

The kid's eyes are wide, and he looks a little embarrassed that his tendencies have revealed themselves at the dinner table, in front of the unusual man who had so kindly taken him in.

He stuffs his hand into his pocket. Witch had missed the motion he had made to grab the sweets, though she was sure she'd been paying enough attention.

"Go on to bed, now."

Master gives the word, and Witch is out of her chair and wiping pumpkin filling and bits of crust from the tart she's picked to pieces on her pretty red party dress.

They go all the way back up the corridor, and she walks extra-fast so the runt won't be right on her heels. She's beginning to abandon the idea that he is only staying the night, that Master is hosting this kid out of pity, and it is seriously worrying her. They reach their rooms, and before she even opens the door he's there, tugging on her sleeve.

"It's too cold."

His cheeks are still a little flushed from the warmth of the dining hall, and his big green eyes, which could've belonged to an old, worldly sage, are staring right at her. She shakes him off, having declared him the enemy over dinner, and glowers at him.

"We're about the same age. Don't you know how to build a fire?"

He shakes his head, unruffled.

And she goes, and builds him a fire in his new, clean fireplace as he takes off his shoes (a little reluctantly) and climbs into bed, arranging the layers of blankets until they are just so, pulled up to his chin.

Witch makes a big show of lighting the tinder with her fingertip, a basic trick Master had taught her. Soon a merry fire swells up, spreading along the logs. She sits back on her knees, and gauges the kid's reaction.

He is appropriately astonished, and asks immediately, "How'd you do that?"

She shrugs, smiling a little, gets up and makes to leave, when she hears a muffled

"Good night."

She nods, uncomfortable, and exits. The corridor outside is extra cold, and though the little bit of magic is supposed to be easy, fundamental fire magic, it eats up a lot of her energy. She still has to light her own fireplace.

She doesn't want to sweat on his behalf.

* * *

Review, if you please. It is a great asset to know where you shine and where you slip up. Also, comments are always appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Spite

I hope none of you readers are thinking that this is gonna be a romance. No siree.

It could... work, I guess, but I don't think I could pull it off, not in this world. And part of me can't get over this odd revulsion I feel towards the concept of Wizard and Witch in a relationship.

* * *

As she watches him interact with Master, Witch sits in a dark corner of the tower they use as a classroom and practices lighting her thumb on fire.

The magic is easy, but she's sweating a bit, and she can't keep herself from monitoring them. She sees Master pat his shoulder and smile, Again, the corners of his eyes folding and his lean, sharp face heaving upwards.

She feels empty and even a little sick, having to see their display, as if the little louse had lived in the castle since he was _born_.

Witch is trying to refocus herself when Master waves her over and tells her to call him Wizard.

She grinds her molars together and grips the apron that covers her dress, leaving tiny half-circle indentations from her ragged nails in the hardened leather. This is almost her worst fear, right next to the one where 'Wizard' (she almost cannot bring herself to actually refer to him by that name; he is no wizard. He is a simple dirty street rat) is swept away by Master, and she is forgotten, left to spend her years idling away lighting her thumbs on fire.

She never knew his name, and is belatedly a little upset at having missed the opportunity to control the stupid weasel like a slave. Somehow he had _known_ not to introduce himself, she was sure.

Master launches into a little Magic theory lesson as he sits on a rug near the empty fireplace.

Magic theory is her favourite, and she's read all the books she could understand on it, but tunes in anyway. The knowledge that she is far ahead of him in at least one subject (his 'talent' is of no importance and Witch doesn't like to think of it) is soothing.

In front of her is a shallow dish of water, a couple dry leaves, a scrap of parchment, and a heap of black soil containing a pea seed, but they've ceased to be interesting.

Master explains to Wizard the concept of magic; she can't see his face, for he is sitting in front of her, but she imagines it to be similar to the one he had made the night before when she had done her little fire-trick. Full of concealed wonder and just enough fascinated incredulity to disgust her slightly.

"Magic is made of the energy that is contained within us, the natural power of our bodies and minds. As we grow and develop, in both knowledge and in our natural forms, we may increase the amount of energy that can be utilised at once. Look at Witch,"

He points over at her, and Wizard swivels around quickly to stare at her.

She quickly pretends to be busy manipulating the water so that it hovers hands-free, shaping it into a ball over the dish for a few seconds.

"She is focusing her energy on her fingers so she can shape the water. This power can be used for all kinds of purposes; the strongest wizards can access hidden worlds and call forth spirits."

Witch turns her attention to the seed in the dirt. She can feel it there, if she really concentrates: the small spark of heat and light- a soul.

She builds up the water-ball again and slowly positions it over the soil mound. There is a familiar burning tension in her body, not quite painful, (as if she is feverish) and she feels a rushing relief as something nameless drains from her body.

The sphere falls from the air and soaks the soil- she can feel a flicker of vitality in the sleeping pea. She feels the tentative prodding of some tiny tentacle against the seed's outer shell.

She is focusing fiercely now, blood rushing in her cheeks and pounding in her head, making her sweat.

Witch lays her palm on the dirt and visualises sending life into the plant-embryo and she feels it leave her once again and travel into the new threadlike roots. Its growth accelerates rapidly under her attention, and its soul glows healthily as it pushes up from the soil.

From the little stem unfolds a soft, rudimentary leaf.

A seven-day process in less than a minute. She leans back against the cool wall, panting, and brushes her sweaty brownish hair from her damp neck.

Wizard observes her while she does this, enchanted by her little display, amazed at the speed of the pea's development.

Witch is unsure if he can even see the plant's soul, reinforced and made strong by her effort and thrumming with vigour.

He glances up at her with his green eyes (green like the glass bottles Master brings home sometimes from his travels, she thinks) and keeps staring down at the plant. He furrows his brow and sticks a finger in the dirt.

the plant slowly grows an inch and forms another two leaves, to her astonishment.

Witch wants to clap her hands around her work suddenly, shield it from his poisonous interference.

_This is not his achievement. This is not his to take._

But she is mostly spent, and loath to move, and when Master looks up from his Magic theory book and notices them there, he sees only the wizard-brat with his grubby finger still in the dirt and praises him like he's gone and found the solution to all Mankind's conflicts. Oh, he's never used magic! He sensed the soul right away! What a good boy, what a smart boy, _what talent_!

Witch is not recognised or praised, though this the most she's gotten a plant to grow using magic since she started, and it makes her guts roil and her eyes sting with angry tears of childish abandonment.

As soon Master turns away to go back to his book, she makes a small spark on her fingertip, using the last remains of her sapped magic, and lights the plant on fire.

Witch sneers at Wizard's face, crestfallen and crumpled with surprise as he watches it burn, watches his very first tangible achievement curl up and wither into black dust.

* * *

Thank you kindly for your support! I always look forward to hearing your comments.

An extra thank you to mylafter, who asked if this story could be a (small) component in their Harvest Moon-inspired game. Check it out once it's done!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Krieg

(I keep forgetting to do this)

I do not own Harvest Moon.

Also, sorry for the little wait. I was without internet and also without motivation. And don't expect any updates for around a week after this, cause I will have no internet.

I love describing their little world, but I'm a little afraid the finished product will read (somewhat) like a collection of related vignettes; I can't tell the _whole_ story of all of their years. They're freaking OLD.

Thank you very much to all you reviewers!

* * *

She had sat in the sidelines for far too long, watching him grow into exactly what she'd feared from day one.

Witch watches him as he browses the magic market, the Magic Underground, for supplies for Master.

This time, _she_ is the tag-along, the sidekick, second place. Just what makes him so special that he gets to lead the charge this time, only two weeks into his training? She is the obvious choice. She is taller, stronger, and better-read than him.

But deep down, in a dark and cobweb-festooned corner of her young mind, she already knows that it's a fool's endeavor to try and placate herself now. She has heard Master talk about Wizard, heard him say things she thought she'd never hear from him. And Witch knows all too well that Master _never_ sugar-coats his sentiments.

Their boots are almost silent as they stroll through the dirt passages, passing hollow faces contoured in shadows cast by flickering torches. There are nondescript tents and overhangs lined up against the rocky walls, dull colours that belie the wares within. Vats of sparkling goo boil over in one tent; their slimy labels promise a cure to any alphabetically-organised ailment.

Another booth is selling dried herbs and tinctures, which hang on strings in clumps from wooden poles, next to one touting an array of false religious paraphernalia- a strip of cloth from Jesus' robe, a splinter from his cross, even an elderly turnip that purportedly looks like the head of a saint.

Wizard lingers a little longer at this one, though it doesn't have what the pair is questing after. Witch stays outside, a ways off from the stream of brightly-coloured magic patrons.

She isn't partial to the herbaceous pungency of the place and steps outside without telling him.

A very tall woman passes closely by her, and Witch gets a sniff of lavender, trapped in the bright billowing linen of her azure dress.

The lady turns her flat bone-white face towards her for a second before striding away.

A fat, red-faced man in a too-tight waistcoat and wide breeches hurries after her, the feather in his hat bobbing.

The magic community all have a consistent standard of beauty; all of them are in some way, attractive. She counts how many people pass before Wizard returns. She records the colours of the elegant women's dresses as they float along like flowers in a muddy river.

The next pair of women are dressed similarly in red and saffron yellow. One of them has pale golden hair and a veil- the other has silver hair and many bracelets.

Eventually Witch gets bored of waiting and wanders off. If he's so _great_ he can come after her himself. He's probably already learned to see the future; he should already know where she's going to be!

Exactly what is there in that little shop that's got him so excited?

Witch finds a peddler who is selling silver jewellery festooned with amber and turquoise from an exotic, far-off land.

The thin, horsy-looking man behind the counter smiles down at her and squints his eyes a little. His large, square, yellow teeth emerge very slightly from his wet upper lip, and she wonders if he thinks she'll try to steal.

"Them things're blessed. Guaranteed to renew health n' beauty in two weeks' time!"

The voice is rough and tinny, nasal to the point of being a perpetual whine.

Witch narrows her eyes at him and walks off, waiting until the shopkeeper is distracted to scrape the mud off her boot heels onto the wood frame of his stall.

There are at least ten different booths hawking remedies made from ground animal parts and very occasionally, even powdered people parts.

Witch sees that Wizard has emerged from his herb shop and is glancing around searchingly. She steps into a kiosk that is displaying oriental imports, mainly jade statuettes and paintings of pale ladies in many-coloured robes with tremendously long hair in elaborate styles.

What really interests her is the bluish silk robe that hangs like a dishrag off a rusty hook in a small corner.

"How much?" She nods toward the robe.

"Five silver pennies."

She wonders why it's so cheap, and enquires.

"Damn thing's cursed. Can't sell it. But I could make it more expensive, if you'd like."

The peddler, irritated, gives her a sharp look and a contrasting cloying smile, and Witch hands over the money without retorting. Curses are apparently very in, even among the magic community.

She reaches up (on the tips of her toes even though she's already ten), unhooks the garment and delights in the luxurious smoothness of it, draped over her arm, marvels for a few seconds at the pattern (drifts of little pink flowers gusting up the hems) and gives it a few strokes for good measure before moving on.

She passes a flock of older magicians- their hair is silver and white, though their faces and bodies stay youthful. They chat in a secluded corner of the damp, cool tunnel and air themselves with lacy, feathery fans.

A congregation of red-faced, portly men guffaw at a bawdy joke next to a butcher's stand whose unidentifiable carcasses, strung up like party pennants, drip watery blood slowly into the shallow ditch that borders the tunnel.

She comes to a chamber, an amphitheater of sorts, at the end of the tunnel. There is a man in purple parading around in front of a crowd, trying to garner participants for some type of game.

As Witch pushes through the mob, she realises the little show is actually a magic duel.

She watches as two men approach the stage with good-natured grins, strip off their coats and pick weapons from a rack leaning against the far wall of the chamber. The

The crier announces the rules, which are as simple as 'no black magic' and 'no killing blows', and the pair lunge at each other.

One of the pair is tall and lanky, starved-looking. He bares his teeth and dashes forward, gathering energy in the fist he smashes into his chum's face.

As his adversary reels backward, he quickly summons up an impressive-looking windstorm that blows the other man fully back on his behind.

The lanky fellow, not a natural-born fighter, takes the opportunity to fumble with his weapon rather than focusing on the blow that would end it, and his movements are shaky, as if he has decided that maybe this little game wasn't such a fun idea.

He grips his weapon tightly, and Witch can see the fear in his eyes from where she stands, and it sends a thrill through her bones.

A bored-looking woman (the medic) in a veiled white headdress stands by, kicking once at a stray chicken that wanders in front of her and only occasionally glancing at the fight.

Blood running from his split lip and mangled teeth, the stockier friend Witch is watching takes careful aim from his spread-eagled seat on the floor and releases a stream of fire from the staff, catching his opponent on the arm.

He howls in pain and surprise and rushes him again, but he is ready again and drives a jagged spike of conjured stone into his stomach.

The tall fighter sinks to his knees and then topples over onto the dirt floor beside his friend, curling around his fresh wound.

The woman in white hurries over, more or less happy to finally see some action.

The victor stands up shakily, his chin and collar soaked with blood.

His grin is no longer as good-natured as he accepts his prize (a new rich red cloak trimmed with dark fur, appropriate for a king or some archaic emperor). He pays no mind to his fallen friend.

And Witch, watching the fight come to an end, has an idea.

A _great _idea.

She looks behind her and sees Wizard's stupid head bobbing every now and again amid the traffic. His green eyes flitter around, searching for her.

She approaches the ringleader and volunteers herself, gets up on the platform and waits for Wizard to notice her.

She catches his eye and motions him over. Her counterpart climbs the stage slowly, embarrassed and confused, and people begin to stir in the audience.

Witch throws on the robe she'd bought at the last second before the fight starts. Wizard just stares at her, baffled. He's thrown his cloth package on the steps, and he eventually breaks his gaze to check on it.

Witch sees the anxiety and befuddlement in his eyes and it makes her feel so much _better_. Witch smirks and shifts into a stance. She doesn't know how to use a magic conductor and refuses the weapons the host offers her.

Wizard doesn't know what he's getting into. She's going to show him who is the best, the brightest star, the _only_ goddamn _special snowflake_.

She's going to make sure he knows _never _to cross her.

* * *

Again, thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Cry out!

Hey, look! Violence!

I don't write a lot of action scenes. I don't know how this'll work out. I use a lot of italics when witch thinks… but that's just sort of the way I feel she would emphasize her thoughts, especially if she had strong feelings about something.

* * *

"Fight!"

The ringmaster bleats, beady eyes much too bright.

Anything for entertainment, Witch thinks. This man would even go as far as gathering an audience to watch two little kids duke it out.

They stand there for a few seconds. Wizard, still pitifully thin standing there in his too-big clothes, is still relatively in the dark. His alarmed face is red, and he casts furious eyes on

She tries to plan her strategy on the fly. Witch knows she has poor stamina, and she doesn't yet know any harmful spells or dark magic, but she is bigger, stronger, hardier. This doesn't have to be a magic-only fight.

But as she approaches him, he sinks to his knees and starts drawing a big circle in the dust. She recognises it and tackles him, holding him down on the ground before he can finish the symbols.

It is the outline of a paralyzing magic circle, albeit a sloppy one. It would have rendered them both paralysed, effectively ending the fight, had she been stupid enough to let him finish it.

She tackles him and holds him down, taking the time to smear the circle with her foot.

Atop Wizard, who hasn't yet begun to really thrash, she takes a deep breath and focuses on her fist, white from tension, trying to bring it to life with her special fire magic.

The best she can get is a weak blue flickering flame on her first two knuckles, but she slams it all the same into his collarbone with all the force she can. It'll do the job.

He flinches and cringes with a queer whimpering gasp at the first blow, which leaves a funny brown melted burn on his skin. He does not try to hit her, but only wiggles feebly under her weight.

Quickly Witch runs out of vigour and adrenaline, and feels lightheaded. The magic is too much for her physically, but her mind is still crackling with energy. The little mage cannot yet call on this bound-up power.

The crowd calls and seethes, spurring her on, wanting to see blood.

Her flames die out after the first couple hits, but Witch keeps going, pounding his face and chest again and again.

Wizard eventually stops trying to buck her off or struggle or even fight back. He clenches shut his eyes screws up his face until his chin dimples and his battered nose crumples, and that feeds her anger even more. Her throat is tight, and if the arena weren't public, she'd be screaming at him.

How pathetic! He's always such a little _saint_. Such a delight, so talented! He won't fight back, and she looks like some wild, dirty brute! He tries to end things _peacefully._

Disgusting!

Her hits aren't remarkably strong, but his nose begins to bleed under the rain of abuse.

And seeing that slow stream of red wind over his mouth and down his chin and mingle with the flow from his cut cheek seems to sap her energy, and she stops her raging fists and rolls off to stand a ways back as he gets up shakily, like a broken puppet.

She wipes a bloody palm over her cold cheek, feeling odd hot tears there.

Maybe she, Witch, is the monster.

He faces her and gives her a kicked-puppy glance full of wary betrayal and hurt.

That look is a look of unfinished business to Witch.

She puts all her juice into a final technique she practices on the blurry nights when sleep seems distant and unreachable, a foreign luxury that only good people like Wizard got.

A little icicle forms in her hands and grows to about the length of her forearm. Wizard isn't looking at her. He prods at a burn on his upper arm. His hair is dark with dirt from the ground.

Witch wonders if he knows the fight hasn't ended yet.

And she takes off at a run toward him, hearing only the blood pounding in her ears and feeding off the dull collective roar of the audience.

The medic is no longer bothering with her stab-wound patient. She pulls up a wooden milking stool, conjured out of nowhere, and sits tautly on the edge of it, hands picking at the stitching of her bodice.

Just as Witch is about to smash the ice-spear into his ribs, it dissipates into the air and she halts suddenly, falling backwards.

Wizard looks up, eyes all wide and frightened.

Red-faced, Master stands at the edge of the arena.

His eyes blaze and his mouth is pursed in a rigid frown beneath his scraggly beard.

He grips their hands, an angry Titan in their eyes, and they vanish away, to the hushed astonishment of the gathered people.

When they manifest again, they are in the sun-filled dining hall. Witch thinks it a poor choice of location to get explosively angry at someone.

"_What are you doing?"_

Witch, though she is quaking, cooks up a quick story. She will take any opportunity to shift the blame onto Wizard. Maybe she can trick Master into giving him a good dose of punishment…

And so Witch puts on a simpering, injured face: big teary eyes, with trembling mouth, head tilted just slightly downward so she can look up at him through her wet eyelashes.

"Wizard just _attacked_ me! I was waiting for him in a corner, and he went nuts! Just came at me! I didn't know what to do! This crowd came and he…"

She trails off and just gives up. Master's not even looking her way. He's examining Wizard's bruised and burned face, wiping the blood from the boy's face with his sleeves.

It's futile to try and convince him when he is this angry.

"Witch, as punishment, you will be locked in the training room for four hours with Wizard. You will heal his injuries during that time. Understood?"

She flinches at his coldly furious tone.

"But it's not my faul-"

"Understood?!"

Master's deep voice rises to a sharp bark.

"...Yes, sir."

Wizard says nothing, and keeps his eyes on the floor.

Sullen, she allows herself to be led limply to the room by the arm.

Her cheeks burn with indignant shame.

He opens the door for them, like prisoners. A thick book sails after them through the last slice of light from the hall, flapping like a failing bird, and hits Witch in the stomach.

Reflexively she clutches her middle with one arm and grabs at the projectile on the floor but the text is already in his grasp.

He sticks his bony child's hand in his coat pocket, digs about, and produces a grubby melted candle that has flakes of grime and pocket-lint stuck in its wax.

He had apparently purchased it on one of their earlier trips to the Underground. It ignites as soon as he places it on a level surface and glows cheerily, brighter than real fire and somehow fakelooking.

Witch frowns at it, but says nothing. Wizard probably needs the self-lighting candle so he can study further into the night to get ahead of her.

In the flickering false flame, Wizard has no expression on his face, just as blank and unreadable as the day he strolled into her world.

He is neither annoyed nor frightened, though his thin face is paper-pale except where his bruises are swelling darkly.

The older apprentice looks down at her own black-and-blue hands.

"You can't even read that, can you?" She asks.

He is squinting at the title, goldleaf in coarse leather, already old as time itself as far as he is concerned. Wizard tilts the first vellum pages this way and that, examining the tiny ink demons and sinners reaching up from their little hells amid saints and angels and grapevines that frolic up the border.

There are detailed drawings that show how to balance humours in the body through energy revitalisation, how to treat fevers and abscesses and plagues. The illustrated people in the little boxes are suffering appropriately, their eyes rolling to the illustrated heavens and their awkward hands clutching at their wounds.

She snatches it from him. The spells are complicated, impossible to read in some places. The lettering is very elaborate and in a language she is only barely able to figure out by looking at the pictures and picking out keywords.

Why should she have to figure this out? Witch doesn't regret beating him up. She only feels ashamed at having been caught.

She cradles the book on her thighs and grabs her martyrish companion by the upper arm, digging her nails in for good measure.

But even though the young magician sharpens her focus to a point she's never before reached, there is no reaction.

There are no sparks spitting from her fingertips, no nurturing green glow, no pushing feeling in her hands.

No nothing.

Moisture beads and slips down her forehead, and her hands shake. There is a great pressure in her guts and tension in her sinuses and throat.

Master had once been so proud to show her talent off to the magic community, and now she cannot even do this one small thing.

Yet another failure.

She suddenly hurls the book at him and tries to smother the tears building up in her eyes by turning away and burying her face in her knees.

"Do it yourself!"

He looks away and rubs at his battered collarbone beneath his tunic.

A minute later, he is tending to the welts with sure hands that glow with a light as reassuring as a cool salve.

By the time Master comes to collect them, Wizard is good as new, not a bruise or a scar to be seen. Witch is a blotchy, soppy mess.

They have missed dinner, and over their late meal of cold bread and old cheese, Wizard tries to meet her eyes.

When he finally does, he gives her a look of great pity, but she can't quite muster the strength to seethe over it.

* * *

Another one of those chapters that are hard to write for no reason. I don't like writing action scenes.

Also, a tidbit: if it says anywhere that Witch is the older apprentice, I mean that they are the same age, but she is a little older by a matter of months and also that she is more experienced.

Been without Internet for a bit, and should have used that time to work on this, but didn't. Sorry!

Thanks anyway for your support!

Planning on getting A Stranger Kind of Empathy back on track after almost a year. Thanks to those who've read it, and offered their input during that time.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7- At the fairs

* * *

She is certain Master knows that Wizard ended up healing himself, and he doesn't say anything about it, but every once in a while he gives her a knowing glance that withers her guts with guilt.

The matter is dropped from conversations around the castle; its residents mention it only once.

Soon, weeks later, word comes from a visiting associate of Master's: there is a festival of magic in a certain seaside town during the last days of summer, and would they care to stay at his manor?

Witch takes it upon herself to save every last coin for the occasion. There are fairs in the town they live in, but they are always small, only for boring things like wool or cows or events like a hanging.

She counts down the days until their departure, during the last wheeze of summer's perfect golden days and warm humid nights, and runs her fingers over the cool heavy metal of her stored pocket money, looks at the perfect little profile of the king with his coat-of-arms on each one.

Wizard does not want to go, and has more or less cemented his poker face in place. As if she would expect any less. He does not want to stay with Master's friend, or buy things at the fair, or watch plays or even attend the special magic classes they offer at night when the magic community comes out of hiding.

Twice he said that he had a bad feeling, and was having dreams about the fair, but she cleanly overlooks those comments in favour of her own plans. What a stubborn fool.

Witch finds it rather shameless and distasteful, how he makes up ridiculous prophecies to lord over her, and as such, never listens to his infantile babblings. He's probably only upset over the recent burning of a troupe of witches who made a misstep in the capital city. The King had sent warnings out all over the country to look out for witches. It doesn't deter her at all. She won't be one of the casualties, won't ever be so careless as to give herself away

On the much-anticipated day, they teleport very early in the morning to an empty field in the middle of nowhere with only a horse and cart to carry them there.

The pitted roads are muddy from recent rain. The cart jounces along in the mud, and she dangles her legs over the side, even though it jostles her stomach and splashes filth on the hem of her dress.

The little witch has developed a taste for the squalid excitement of a fest.

Oh, she loves the immensity of it all, the shrieking of the caged roosters with their beautiful black-green plumage and scarlet faces, the slow plodding horses, the vendors selling roast swallows (three for a penny!), the roaming puppeteers that showed tales of wandering Jesus and of miracles and angels. Though it is a magic festival come sunset, it looks much the same as the ordinary fairs of her home on a far grander scale.

A man with crooked yellow teeth tries to sell bright jewelled combs and pretty things to passing noble ladies who ignore him briskly. Even she, at a distance, can tell that the gems are false. Dogs and pigs traverse the flowing crowd like regular members of this rowdy society. Men slurp ale and flip engraved knives around. The drunkest of them all pay no mind to their sopping feet, having stepped through the fetid sewer-ditches that run along the sides of the tall houses.

Fresh fruit is arranged on tables, peddled from the back of a broken-down old wagon. A goat cries and startles a goose that soon resumes its placid pecking at the ground.

Every kind of waste stagnates in puddles and ditches and its collective reek mingles with that of old fish and the scent of the sea.

Everywhere, fish. Whatever can be found and eaten in the sea is for sale.

A very loud young man wants to rally a party to go falconing in a nearby wood. Money is tossed about, animals are exchanged, plays are watched.

There is a kind of peace in the busyness of the fairs, the comfort of being totally alone and anonymous, a rare, unique creature among a seething crowd of fest-goers.

Master has gone to meet in the Magicians' Guild hall with the rest of his comrades and Wizard simply refuses to leave the wagon, cowering like a dog.

She buys a meat pie for a halfpence and stands near a particular display of imports. Some of the peddler's fingers appear lopped off.

There is a withered shapeless dusty thing he calls an apricot (claimed to hail from hot, exotic desert lands) a few satchels of powdered and whole spices, (for the making of a perennial feast favourite, spiced wine) a collection of smooth murky green rocks, a couple bizarre-looking dried fish, leathery and brown. But mostly he hawks great clumps of unwashed, greasy-looking wool.

She leaves to go down to the river and sticks her toes in the tumbling, freezing water. A cloud of gnats descends almost immediately, gravitating toward her sweat.

A turnip, pale as a dead fish and only visible for a second in the brown and shadowy effluent, dashes past. In the distance are acres of fields, black and rich in the fresh sunshine.

The actual beach is still a ways away, but the witch-in-training can see it distantly, a brushstroke of deep blue on the horizon.

She remembers that her mother used to like the sea, but though it doesn't seem that she has spent all that long in the care of Master, time is already starting to rob her of her mother's face, now only an outline and a pair of odd golden eyes in her memory. As the young magician watches the sun set, she remembers that not too long ago, she was absolutely sure she'd be able to return to her mother after her training. Grow crops with magic, clean the house, make life easier on her with her skills. Maybe even find a cure for her sickness. She wonders if she's still okay for a brief second, and turns away to head back to the town, where most merchants have already packed their things and long since left.

The _real_ fair is almost underway.

* * *

I got really... flowery when I wrote this chapter :/

Okay, so here is my inexcusably long author's note. Sorry, but I got stuff to say. Also, updates will be less frequent because of the resumption of school.

I would really appreciate it if you understood that in the approximate time period that I am attempting to depict thus far in this (probably exhaustively long) tale, religion is a huge part of daily life.

This is for historical consistency. I will present these themes in as neutral a manner as I can, so please don't get all upset at my mentioning them a few times.

And another wait. I took some time to think and realised that I totally veered off the path I had planned to take initially. The summary doesn't match the first segment at all. It makes it seem as if it is all told by Wizard (which I had intended), but as of now it seems that the main character is actually Witch.

Maybe that's how it'll be. I'll make more use of him in the future, for sure.

Or should I just transition later into Wizard's voice?

Thanks for your advice and support, as always!


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